


Sense and Sensuality: Beyond Words

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 23:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10398825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Another little sketch of Mycroft, Greg, and a possible first time. An exercise in trying to work through the experience of a hyper-rational, hyper-verbal/abstract man like Mycroft dealing with the non-rational, non-verbal elements of attraction.Ooops. The clipboard failed to clear. Repost!!!





	

Mycroft later concludes that the entire situation came at him out of ambush—not a matter to be handled verbally, or numerically, or with clean, controlled logic. No. It was a thing of images and gestures, voice tone, movement. Non-verbal cues. Scent—the smell of stale tobacco and honest sweat; of the slices of pickled daikon and sweet-hot red chilis on a mid-day banh mi sandwich. Of beer and scotch and a rare, obviously savored fat cheroot. It was the scorching awareness of a long, limber line running from Lestrade’s shoulders down his spine, up over the crest of one hip, and over the cheek of his bum—a complex curve that only stands out when he turns back to call something over his shoulder. It is so seductive and fluid a curve Mycroft is forever tempted to get in one penultimate word that will force Lestrade to turn and take a Parthian shot in retreat. It’s the flash of a smile—and God, such straight, white teeth in a man of his age, raised just before British dentistry standards went all-American. His files assure Mycroft those teeth are natural, too—not perfect because some frolicking lad knocked them all out in a bar fight, leaving it up to the orthodontic surgeon to glue them all back together as his own tastes required.

He was ambushed by brown-eyed glances, each one distinct and clear as the chime of a crystal bell, carrying meaning. One summery gaze brought him down, helpless as an arrow-shot gazelle, to lie gasping and humble.

It was wrong. So very, very wrong. He was Mycroft Holmes, and he was supposed to be immune to such things. He set it aside, refusing to look. To hear—the expressive, gruff voice, always surprisingly lighter and more educated in person than it was in memory, where it turned dark and bearish and working-class Cockney, a sexy sort of shadow-voice. Yet the real voice was no less desirable, though a half-octave higher than imagination had made it, less burred and bristling, with aitches where they belonged and fewer Vs and Fs threating to usurp the place of “th.”

It wasn’t fair. Not that much of Mycroft’s life was fair, but on the whole he’d at least managed to create a working compromise with fairness. Mummy and Father and Sherlock would always be what they were—and where Eurus was involved there was no hope to be had—but on the whole Mycroft was content enough with his private and professional lives. He was alone, yes, but personal experience and dispassionate observation of others suggested that “alone” might well be the best option open to him. And then he had to see Greg Lestrade’s hands wrap around a cardboard coffee cup, cradle it firmly, warm themselves against the corrugated paper collar. The curve of his fingers, the pressure of his palms, the greedy assurance of his touch as he sought the heat he desired…

Mycroft did not let himself think about it…

Except when the thoughts snatched the reins from his grip and galloped pell-mell through the wild corners of his otherwise orderly mind. Those times he could not leap off, dared not stay astride, feared where he was going…and loved every wild, coursing, open-gaited beat of his runaway, reckless thoughts.

More sane, more settled, he’d push the thoughts aside, and refuse to take them in. What you don’t think can’t hurt you, after all. But they always returned.

“Hello.”

He lifted his head and found himself smiling back at the blazing smile that greeted him.

“Lestrade.” He kept his voice from shaking.

Lestrade grinned more widely still. “Been awhile.”

“So it has.”

“Shame. Always a treat to work with you.”

“And you, Detective Inspector.”

“Detective Chief Inspector, now.”

“Does it make a substantial difference?”

“Gives me more room to tell people to sod off when they nose into my business.”

“I can see how that might have appeal.”

“You should. It’s like having a portable Diogenes I can pull out whenever I like. Some berk asks me something that’s none of his business, I can look ‘im in the eye and tell ‘im to bugger off.”

“How—eloquent.”

“Ennit? Suits me to a T. First time in years my private life’s my own.” He laughed, and Mycroft heard it…the sound outside the neat lines laid out by logic and rationality. A faint tone of delight, the hint of a sensual purr.

“How fortunate for you.” He didn’t know what to say. That was, in part, because the non-verbal portions of his mind had taken over.

A complex line from collarbone to sternum to belly, meandering around the inner crease of a hip and down along the tender inside curve of a thigh… The sudden awareness of Lestrade’s breath, steady but deep, and obviously just barely kept in control.

“It is fortunate, yeah. Means I can pretty much pull whoever I like.” He smiled wider and moved closer. “Interested?”

Mycroft sputtered, mind tearing in two right down the middle. One part failed to even see the innuendo—or thought itself mistaken. The other part saw, heard, and leapt to the fore, yearning for action. “What?” He knew he sounded stupid. He couldn’t fix it. Still, he tried. “I mean, of course I’m interested. Your life is changing, after all.” He sounded like someone’s old grand-da, didn’t he?

“Lucky me,” Lestrade said, and his eyelids drooped and his brown eyes whispered rude things to Mycroft’s wordless, wailing instincts. “Lucky me… And lucky you.”

He could not argue. He could only blink, entranced and entrapped.

Lestrade laughed softly, and studied the other man. “Yours or mine, eh?” His voice was soft—but far from hesitant.

Mycroft gaped and gasped like a goldfish stranded out of water. “I…you…”

“Shhhh,” Lestrade said, and kissed him.

It was never about words. Or reason. Or logic or conscious choice.

It was about cupid’s bow lips on a man who was good at being a man. About voice and scent and supple lines.

And that was how Mycroft fell in love.


End file.
